


Dissonance

by Synonym_Roll



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander Hamilton Being an Asshole, Canon Era, Forgive Me Washingdad For I Have Sinned, Hamilton Was an Antagonistic Little Shit, Happy Birthday George Washington, History Has Its Eyes On Me and Is Not Proud, History Proves It, I'm Writing Smut About the Founding Fathers, Intense, Intimacy, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Musical References, Non-Graphic Violence, President's Day, Washington Was in Love with Battle, What is my life?, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-23
Updated: 2018-02-23
Packaged: 2019-03-22 20:38:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13772094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synonym_Roll/pseuds/Synonym_Roll
Summary: Strains of dark music echoed in the caverns of the General’s mind: violin and cello weaving around one another, harps and pianos lending their voices to a cacophony that had him enveloped, enraptured. Glittering crescendos punctuated by the agonized screams of soldiers as their blood stained earth red. An endless cycle and symphony that made fire sing through his veins. Music, that was what he found in battle, what he heard in every clashing sword and ricocheting bullet. Music that soothed the beast inside his chest and mind, restless and savage in times of peace.And in the midst of his beloved maelstrom, there stood glorious temptation with deep eyes like pools of ire and bitterness and the ink that stained delicate fingers, with unruly chestnut waves that refused to be restrained by something so proper as a soldier's queue and fell into a face that smiled warmly and laughed often but spoke of years of pain and suffering no one so young should know, with a small and sturdy frame that was filled to the brim fire and rage and spite and all the exquisite torment of the battlefield. In the midst of his beloved maelstrom, there stood the storm personified. In the midst of his beloved maelstrom, there was Hamilton.





	Dissonance

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a thought I shared with my IRL bestie, @ReclaimingRollins , that went something along the lines of "I wonder if Washington is looking down on all of us from heaven and is seeing how he's being immortalized as 'Daddy Washington' because of Chris Jackson, and if he's kinkshaming us all."
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> In honor of the birthday of America's first president, I bring you this humble offering. Please, enjoy, and let me know what you think! Feedback inspires me!

 

Strains of dark music echoed in the caverns of the General’s mind: violin and cello weaving around one another, harps and pianos lending their voices to a cacophony that had him enveloped, enraptured. Glittering crescendos punctuated by the agonized screams of soldiers as their blood stained earth red. Momentary silence shattered by cannon-fire, and the melody began again, an endless cycle and symphony that made fire sing through his veins. _Music_ , that was what he found in battle, what he heard in every clashing sword and ricocheting bullet. Music that soothed the beast inside his chest and mind, restless and savage in times of peace.

 

The General was a good man, he liked to believe. Stern and somber, perhaps it could be said, but he did not believe himself unjustly cruel or unkind. Why then could he never feel at ease unless surrounded by cruelty and misery? Perhaps it was some form of punishment, some torment he was meant to suffer for the sins he had committed throughout his life. But no amount of speculation could change the fact that his very soul cried out for the depravity of war, and that battle was, to him, the most stunning musical performance one could bear witness to.

 

There was no steadier rhythm than that of marching feet, no note more pure than that of a gunshot ringing, no harmony more humbling in it’s grace than the sounds of men fighting and falling for a cause they believed in. It was music, and it was magic, and it was a storm the General would hurl himself into time and time again with no fear for what harm may come to himself. Perhaps to die in the midst of such music would be considered holy. Perhaps it would be his penance for the innumerable faults and sins he was no doubt riddled with.

 

Sins that he could never escape, it seemed. Here, in the midst of this blissful chaos that had always cleansed him before, there was temptation that threatened to drag him further still toward damnation than he had had already willingly marched. There was a softer, more tantalizing melody that called to him, winding its way between the notes woven in combat and haunting him still as he laid down to sleep. Try as he might to immerse himself solely in the discordance of his beloved war, he could not escape the descant.

 

The melody had a face, of course, one that accompanied him all through the discordant pulchritude of each battle and every terrible stasis between. It had a voice, adding to the music’s call, and physical form, and a name, and it stayed with him, never straying far from his side. It was no wonder at all, then, that he could not escape the temptation, if it never truly left him alone.

 

In the midst of his beloved maelstrom, there stood a glorious temptation with deep eyes like pools of ire and bitterness and the ink that stained delicate fingers, with unruly chestnut waves that refused to be restrained by something so proper as a soldier's queue and fell into a face that smiled warmly and laughed often but spoke of years of pain and suffering no one so seemingly young should know, with a small and sturdy frame that was filled to the brim fire and rage and spite and all the exquisite torment of the battlefield. In the midst of his beloved maelstrom, there stood the storm personified. In the midst of his beloved maelstrom, there was Hamilton.

 

The General was a good man, he liked to believe, but Hamilton was the embodiment of every ungodly thing he had ever desired, of every unsavory want and need, and while the General considered himself a good man, a strong man, he was not so strong as to carry the weight of the nation his men all dreamed they could be and still deny himself. Perhaps he could be so strong, _perhaps,_ if only Hamilton himself were not so very _willing._

 

Hamilton himself was a strong man. He yielded to none save those he deemed worthy, he gave no ground even then. He challenged the General at every turn and supported him all the same and deemed him _worthy_ of yielding to, honoring even. And, as though he could see into the darkest, most blackened bits of the General’s soul, he lingered.

 

Long nights, cold, when most men sought comfort in what little drink they could find, or the warmth of the fire, or each other’s cots, Hamilton lingered. His was always the last candle extinguished, save for the General’s, and he would present himself as an offering, asking or begging, “Is there anything else you require from me, Your Excellency?” Always a gentle lilt to his voice, soft, as though this were a secret to be kept between the two of them. Though his body never betrayed propriety more than was usual for this storm of a man, his words held a hidden warmth that spoke of something salacious. “Is there anything else from me that you desire?”

 

Always that word, that wretched word. _Desire._ There was so much that the general desired from the young man, and he could hear the notes in his head, crystalline cadences of skin on skin and sweat and escaping breath. He craved it more than he knew was possible, and his will was wearing thin, the symphony unfinished, gnawing on his nerves until he could scarcely contain himself.

 

And the temptation knew. Surely, _surely_ he knew what he was doing, how close he was growing to damning them both irredeemably. There was intelligence and mirth in those obsidian depths that left no doubt. The General should have sent him away, before the descant could collide with the familiar melody of his war and corrupt it forever. But he could not. He had not the strength. The nights grew colder and the warmth that radiated from Hamilton was too needed to send from his side.

 

Hamilton was his weakness, his downfall.

 

Weakness was pressed, ultimately; sin always knew when it was time to creep in and take over.

 

The music had lulled, a calm day settling the General’s nerves and allowing Hamilton’s tune to slip to the back of his mind, a ditty to be repressed and ignored as one ignored the occasional resurfacing of a childhood nursery rhyme. However, as it always must, the day drew to a close, and Hamilton approached the General as the serpent had Eve in the Garden.

 

The General was no Eve. He was twice as knowledgeable and twice as weak.

 

Hamilton’s voice, a sweet tenor, startled the General from his reverie. Caught off guard, he was weak. Temptation, like a serpent, struck.

 

A small, innocent smile. “Is there anything else that you require of me, Your Excellency?” The repeated refrain, with more meaning, more depth. There was no warmth, but heat. Sweltering. Discordant notes in a dark, ascending rhythm. “Is there anything else from me that you desire?”

 

The music was hypnotic, a siren’s call, but the General tried to pull away from it. “No, Hamilton,” he said, his voice smaller than he would have liked. “You are dismissed.”  
  
Hamilton’s smile faded into something soft and disappointed and put on. “Alexander, sir,” he was quick to correct, and the rhythm picked up pace. “And there must be something you desire, Your Excellency. I am at your service. Anything at all.” He bowed his head. Sweet submission. The melody quieted, the General’s resolve strengthened.

 

“Son-”

 

Brimstone eyes met his, alive with fury, and the fire was back more forcefully than it had ever been before. The General was melting in the face it. There was a harmony weaving through his mind, discordant, and dangerously alive.

 

“I am _not_ your son.” It was a growl, adding to the rhapsody of noise, stunning the General. “No father desires their son as you desire me. I see how you watch me, I know that you would have me, and you cannot deny it, you cannot send me away. I have served you loyally, and your desires are _mine_ to fulfill, so _take me,_ old man, but do not-”

 

Silence from his temptation, from his mind, from the music, from the General himself as the back of his broad hand collided with Alexander’s cheek.

 

And then the music was back, dizzying and intoxicating, as Alexander’s mouth collided with his own, teeth and tongue, fingers tugging frantically at his clothes.

 

If he were a stronger man, the General would shove Alexander away. Instead, the melody overwhelmed him and he pulled his temptation closer, readily accepting his damnation.

 

Clothing was ripped away and instruments screeched. Bruises bloomed across willing skin and strings sang. Teeth drew blood in places no eyes but their own could see, lips caressed and assaulted, nails scratched, hands grabbed and pushed and pulled. Music, dizzying, built and spun about them, swelling with each drag and slap of skin against skin, with each plea of salvation from Hamilton’s swollen lips even as they descended further into a hell, until they reached a blinding crescendo, a perfect diapason.

 

Bliss.

 

Cacophony settled into consonance, and as breath returned to them, all was peaceful.

 

For a moment, a lullaby.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, fun fact time! If you read the tags, you might have seen how I noted Washington's love of war. THIS IS A HISTORICAL FACT. Though he was a somber and polite man, he could also be terribly cruel toward his slaves and he was a ruthless soldier. It often seemed that off the battlefield, he was a shell of a man and scarcely knew what to do with himself. 
> 
> That's all! Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are greatly appreciated!


End file.
